Crossing Over

By Melody Romancito

I woke up suddenly like I'd been running, then abruptly stopped. I tossed aside the heavy woolen cover and felt the bite of cold on my face -- first, on my cheeks, then the frosted air went up my nose. Looking directly above, I could see the stars, like a big milky spill on a rich, black velvet cloth.

"We're almost there, Christene. You'll want to wake your ma," I heard her Pa say. He was riding Big Mary, just a little to the side of the second wagon. His breath plumed from inside his up-turned collar and boiled around the wide brim of his felt hat, then disappeared into the night above his head.

The oldest ones, Ordith, C.L., and Albertene, rode up in the first wagon with our provisions. In the second, Nettie and I took turns holding the reins. We were only a year apart; she was twelve and I was thirteen. The least ones, Dub, Sue Annie and the baby, rode in the bottom of the wagon bed, packed around our mother like padding on something breakable and precious. She was ill and curled up on a cornshuck mattress in the wagon bed.

The doctor back in Briartown said that maybe the trip would "start her liver." She had a bad gall bladder, he said, and I felt Pa only half-believed the doctor when he said she might get better. I suspected Pa was making the trip from Indian Territory back to Arkansas so Ma could say good-bye to her folks before she passed on.

As I sat up and shook off sleep, I saw Nettie's slight frame slumped over on the buckboard, the reins loose in her hands. That was all right because Pie and Charlie never strayed when another wagon was in the lead or Pa was around. Pa never punished an animal for disobeying. He just made them feel so ashamed they never wanted to be ill-behaved on purpose. The same was true with us kids.

We loved our Ma and Pa so much, we never wanted to disappoint them or see them sad. And with there being so many of us -- and each of us growing up in our own way. We were bound to disappoint them at one time or another.

But nothing hurt so bad as thinking that Ma might die. I'd lay in bed nights and try hard to come up with something that would scare me right good, but I never came up with anything as scary as the thought that our dear mother might soon be gone from us.

That's when I started having the dream.

In my dream, we're on a road, late at night, which was unusual because Pa always endeavored to find a wagon yard where we could camp, cook and get plenty of feed and water for the animals.

But in my dream, we're on the road, and it's near midnight on New Years' Eve 1899. It's just minutes from the new century. In 1900 life seemed like it might be brighter, luckier and more full of hope.

Right in front of us is the border into Arkansas. It's like a line shining in the night -- like it was made of something more constant than flame, and the most pure and pretty blue as you would ever see. For some reason, we're all anxious to get across the border just as it turns midnight. It's like if we all get across the state line just as the hands on Pa's gold pocket watch say it's twelve, then everything was going to change for the better and in my dream we're all desperate to make it across.

This dream went on night after night for nearly two months. It became more elaborate until finally I had to tell Pa. That was just about the time he decided that it was time to pack it in at the Derrick farm and take Ma on back to her folks on Pilot Knob.

When I told him about the dream, he patted me on the head and smiled, said, "My sweet little 'Teenie, you're always thinking on the big things, even when you're asleep." He said it in a soft voice, like he was suddenly tired.

"Well, Pa, Grandma Rubble always said God talks to us in our dreams. I think it means if we can get Ma as far as Arkansas by the new century, she's going to get better," I said, trying to sound reasonable.

"Well, God may talk, but who are we to know what He's saying. What ever happens is God's will, Christene. Don't get your self worked up over something that you can't help," he said with that lopsided smile he always wore when he didn't like what he was saying but thought he ought to say it anyway.

But now, we were on the road for true and it wasn't but a little time before midnight. Even though I had never seen the border from Indian Territory to Arkansas with my regular eyes, I knew that ridge and copse of trees just ahead was on the boarder. It looked like we were going to make the crossing just as the little and big hand on Pa's watch were meeting on the twelve at the top.

I reached back and jostled Ma's shoulder as gently as I could, but firm enough to wake her. I heard her sharp intake of breath when the pain inside found her awake once more.

"We're almost there, Ma."

I didn't need to tell her more than that. We had all talked it over many times, until finally Ma and Pa decided it wouldn't hurt to humor me and stay on the road this night, just to prove to me forever that God's will was God's will and what would be would be.

"Help me sit up, Christene," Ma gasped through the pain. Dub and Sue Annie shifted and murmured in their sleep, but Baby was wide awake.

Nettie roused from her seat on the buckboard. "I'll hold the baby Ma," she said as she pulled her jumper collar closer.

Everyone looked ahead, anticipating the cross over into Arkansas, like they could almost see the bright, shining light that Christene knew from her dream.

Suddenly, the second wagon ground to a halt with a sickening crunch sound. The right rear side slammed down as the big wooden wheel fell off and rolled awhile before falling over.

Dub and Sue Annie spilled out of the wagon with startled cries. The baby howled and Ma cried out in pain.

Pie and Charlie, good horses even in adversity, stood their ground. Pa, hearing the trouble, pulled Big Mary around.

"Of all the ..." he growled. "We wouldn't have had this blamed trouble if we weren't Molly-coddling some child who talked us into being ... " He stopped short.

Ma held her side and tears ran down the side of her face. Dub and Sue Annie clung to the sleeves of her coat, almost pulling her out of the wagon.

I jumped down and went around to her side, brushing the little ones away.

"Don't you say a word, Tom Cobb, or I'll promise you a hot place to spend eternity," Ma spat through her tears.

"Get up, Ma," I begged, starting to sob. I could not believe we had gotten so close to crossing over and then this. It was almost as if something was trying to thwart us from our purpose. "Get up and start walking. It's not far -- really it's not -- and I'll hold you up."

"She'll do no such thing! You can help your Ma out of there so we can pull the wagons over to the side," Pa said angrily.

"C.L.! Ordith! Come and help me carry Ma over the line!" By this time I was sobbing so hard I wasn't sure I could make myself understood.

"Come on! Help me carry her over!" I couldn't see them well, but it looked as if they just sat in their wagon, afraid to move one way or the other.

"Don't contradict me, child. I said leave her be. There isn't anything to be done about it now. We lost our chance to make your dream real, so face it and move on."

"But Pa!"

"No buts! You've got to face reality, girl, and accept what God dishes out for you."

"Maybe what God wants is for us to turn toward hope and turn our backs on the lack of it, Pa!"

We stood over Ma, staring each other down and I felt as tall and as strong as any adult. I didn't want to sass my pa, but what I wanted, more than anything in the world, was for us to keep trying and not give up.

"She's right, Pa," cried Nettie, clinging to the wailing baby.

Ordith, C.L. and Albertene joined in the chorus. "We gotta make it! We come this far. Come on, Ma, we'll carry you!"

Each of us grabbed on to Ma, and despite Pa's protests, carried Ma the hundred or so yards over the state line into Arkansas.

As we got closer, I saw a crude sign someone had set up on the spot. It said, "Leaving Indian Territory and entering Heaven on Earth."

Once on the other side, Ma collapsed -- fainted from the effort, I guess. We set up a crude camp right then and there. Pa and the boys wrangled with the wagons and horses while us girls got Ma and the least ones settled in.

As I worked on trying to get to sleep, I fought back tears. Nothing had changed. The heavens had not opened up. Angels didn't sing and Ma seemed as sick as before. Now, we had a broken wagon wheel. We'd loose another two days.

The next morning, before the sun was fully up over the ridge to the east, I saw Pa build a small fire and put on the blue enameled coffee pot and the big kettle of water. Everyone else was fast asleep, even the baby.

I got up and joined Pa at the fire, not sure how he would receive me. He reached out his hand and I took it. He pulled me close and wrapped his big wool coat around the both of us.

"Forgive me for trying to take away your hope, 'Teenie. I should never try to take that away from anyone," he said softly to me.

"I forgive you, Pa. Will you forgive me for sassing you like I did?"

"If you forgive me, I forgive you," he said, smiling over my head , then gave a worried glance at Ma, who began to stir.

She sat up slowly. "I'll be. My pain is gone! I'm sore all over, but that horrible, unbearable pain is gone. I don't even want to recall how it felt, because I might bring it back. But it's gone, gone, gone!"

Pa and I looked at each other, then at Ma, then at everyone else, who began to stir just as the sun crested the ridge.

THE END

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